To Err is Human
by phantasyfanatics
Summary: When one of Sherlock's plans to catch a criminal results in an injury, Sherlock realizes what John means to him and that he's been talking John for granted. Can Sherlock fix his mistakes? *Multi-Chapter* Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything really... If I did I would have more money. Also, the quote of my title - "To Err is Human" - I didn't come up with that. Not my quote!

Summary: When one of Sherlock's plans to catch a criminal results in an injury, Sherlock realizes what John means to him and that he's been talking John for granted. Can Sherlock fix his mistakes? *Multi-Chapter* Not slash.

Rated T for some violence and mild swearing.

Author: Victoria

AN: I don't know how long it will take me to get new chapters up, but I will try to post regularly. Ideally, once a week for however long this story continues.

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**Chapter 1**

Sherlock slunk along in the shadows, following John down the nearly empty road.

"It's 12 midnight and he's asking me to go get milk," John grumbled. "Couldn't he have picked a better time?"

The army doctor had no idea that Sherlock was following him, or why he was going to get milk at this time of night. Truth be told, this outing had nothing to do with milk at all. The past week had seen three murders, all by the same perpetrator, and Sherlock was getting close to discovering the murderer's identity. From the evidence he had analyzed, the consulting detective had deduced that the criminal would be searching for his next victim tonight and in this area of the city.

Sherlock also knew that on the way to the store for milk, John frequently took a short-cut through an alley that was perfect for an attempted murder.

The detective's plan was that the murderer would attack John - who, with his army experience, would easily fight him off. Sherlock would call Lestrade, and then he and John would hold down the murderer until the police arrived.

In his mind, the plan was faultless. It was for that reason that he hadn't told a single person his strategy, not even John. Besides, Lestrade and John always made takedowns so _boring_. Sherlock couldn't stand boring.

John hesitated at the entrance of the alleyway, considering the safety of walking into the darkened passageway. However, hurry and irritation won out over common sense - as Sherlock had known it would at this time of night.

"I just want to get this bloody errand over with. A half minute in an alleyway won't kill me," John grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he entered the alley. Sherlock followed from a distance, almost giddy with anticipation. This was the highlight of his week.

A form shifted in the shadows of the far side of the alleyway. John peered into the darkness, then let out a yell as the murderer lunged at him.

The assailant raised a pistol, and John dove out of the way. Sherlock's breath caught in this throat. The murderer hadn't used a pistol before. He was not supposed to have a gun! The consulting detective fumbled with his phone, dialing Lestrade's number.

"Lestrade, get here right away!" Sherlock hissed into the phone. "We're in the alleyway near 221B - you know which one I mean!"

The murderer's finger tightened on the trigger as John tackled him, trying to get the gun away.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

John and the assailant went down in a tangle of limbs. The gun fired with a bang, and the army doctor let out a cry of pain.

The consulting detective gasped, dropping his phone. John lay on the ground, clutching his leg in pain as the murderer stood up. Sherlock rushed out of the shadows and awkwardly swung a fist towards the criminal. The other man whirled on him, pistol-whipping him across the face. Sherlock crashed to the ground, blood dripping down his forehead.

John struggled to his knees, his eyes glazed with pain. He lunged for the gun in the murderer's hand, but missed and fell onto his side with a groan.

Sirens echoed nearby, and a lock of shock flashed through the criminal's eyes - a look that would have been mirrored in his face had it not been masked. Startled by the failed murder and the soon-arriving cops, he turned and fled down the alley, firing one last shot that glanced harmlessly off the brick wall.

One eye blinded by blood, Sherlock crawled over to his injured friend.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" John gasped out.

Wracked with guilt, the consulting detective didn't respond. He pressed both hands to the bullet wound in his friends upper leg. John let out a half-scream.

"Careful!" he rasped, almost passing out.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice rang out as he ran into the alley. "What the hell happened here?"

"John's been shot," Sherlock stated breathlessly.

Lestrade nodded. "I heard the gunshot over the phone. An ambulance is on the way - for John _and_ for you."

Donovan ran over and elbowed Sherlock out of the way, then aided John into a sitting position, speaking quietly to the wounded man.

"The murderer- he got away-" Sherlock grabbed Lestrade's arm to pull himself to his feet.

"The murderer? What?" The detective inspector took a moment to realize what his friend was talking about. When he did, his shoulders fell. "Oh no. Sherlock, you- you set this up? How could you?!"

"He wasn't supposed to have a gun!" Sherlock shouted. He buried his face in his hands. The ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the alleyway, and the paramedics rushed past the detectives with a stretcher.

Lestrade didn't reply. After a moment, he nudged Sherlock towards the ambulance. "You need medical attention too."

The consulting detective watched quietly as the paramedics lifted John's stretcher into the ambulance. "No. I'll take the Tube to the hospital," he said. He turned to leave, but was stopped by Lestrade's hand on his shoulder.

"At least let me drive you, if you won't take the ambulance," the other man offered.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. "Fine. John- will John be alright?"

"From what I saw, I don't think the bullet hit an artery. Looks like he got lucky," Lestrade responded. "He should be fine."

The ambulance doors slammed shut, and the vehicle took off with its sirens wailing. Lestrade and Sherlock climbed into the detective inspector's car and followed the emergency vehicle.

Sherlock's head was throbbing, but the man barely noticed. His guilt and shock overwhelmed him, blotting out everything else. The plan had failed. One of his plans had failed, and John had gotten shot because of it.

"Dammit," the consulting detective murmured. Over and over, his thoughts returned to the look of pain on John's face. Sherlock's voice rose. "Dammit!" he shouted again. He slammed his fist down on the passenger side dashboard, leaving a smear of blood on the plastic. A mix of John's blood and of his own.

Lestrade didn't say a word. He just silently continued driving as Sherlock leant his head against the window and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer (again): I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything really... If I did I would have more money. Also, the quote of my title - "To Err is Human" - I didn't come up with that. Not my quote!

AN: Early chapter! Yay! Next week's chapter may be early or late too, because I won't be able to post next weekend. Also, I don't know anything about bullet wounds or hospitals or anything... hopefully everything is accurate.

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**Chapter 2**

The next morning, John opened his eyes to find himself staring at a plain white ceiling, a hospital ceiling. There was an uncomfortable itch in the back of his hand, but other than that he felt strangely numb.

The fight in the alley was crystal clear in the army doctor's mind - up until he was shot in the leg. Everything after that was a blur. One thing he did know - Sherlock had been there.

"John?"

The voice wasn't Sherlock's, John realized with some disappointment. He looked up to see a concerned Lestrade looking down at him.

"How are you feeling?"

John gave a small shrug. "Not really feeling anything, actually." He resisted the urge to pull at the IV needle in the back of his hand. "What happened? I know I was shot, but I've no idea what came after that."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it's a long story... Sherlock called me when he saw you were in trouble."

"Why was Sherlock even there?" the army doctor asked.

"That's a question he should answer himself."

"What?" John pushed himself into a sitting position. There was a twinge of pain coming from a spot above his right knee, and the man winced.

Lestrade saw the look on John's face and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Just lay still for a while. The nurses have you on morphine but that's still one hell of an injury. It's going to hurt if you move around," the detective inspector said.

"How bad is it?" John questioned quietly, dreading the answer.

"Considering the fact that it's a gunshot wound to the thigh, you're very lucky. The gun that your attacker used was low caliber. The bullet hit a couple inches above your knee - missed all the major arteries and nerves, thank goodness - and went clean through," Lestrade replied. John heaved a sigh of relief, but then the other man continued. "However, the bullet tore through a good portion of muscle. It'll take a long time to recover."

The army doctor's breath caught in his throat.

"I think the nurses are planning to keep you here overnight. After that, you'll probably be about be about two weeks in a wheelchair," the detective inspector finished.

"Lestrade!" A voice announced. "I've caught our killer." Sherlock strode into the room, his coat flapping behind him, but froze the instant his eyes alighted on the now-awake John.

"Well, I'll leave you two to chat." Lestrade stood up and headed for the door, but stopped to whisper something to Sherlock before leaving.

"Hello, John," the consulting detective said stiffly. A cut on his forehead was stitched together, the dark sutures painfully obvious against his pale skin.

"That head injury - are you alright?" John asked worriedly.

Sherlock crossed the room to stand at the window. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. And your leg?"

The amy doctor scratched at the back of his hand. "Better than it could be, but it'll take a long time to heal."

"Ah." Sherlock gave a brief nod. Rolling up his sleeve, he ripped the nicotine patch off his arm and tucked it into his pocket. His movements were sharp and curt.

"Why were you there last night?" John questioned.

"Irrelevant."

"Sherlock, why were you there?"

The consulting detective was on the verge of ending the conversation right there, but then he remembered Lestrade's words on his way out. _Tell him the truth._ But how was he supposed to tell John what he'd done? After a pause, the detective blurted out. "We didn't need milk."

"What?" John stared at him blankly. "We didn't need- Then why on earth did you send me to the store?"

"You remember the case we were working on, with the serial strangler?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock started to pace. "I knew that was going to be looking for his next victim last night and I knew exactly where he'd be. So I used that knowledge to catch him. Well, that was my plan."

The confused look didn't leave John's face. "I don't understand what this has to do with me getting shot."

"How can you not understand, it's so obvious!" Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration and ceased his pacing. "I set you up! I knew you went through that alley to get milk and I knew the strangler would be there so I set you up and then followed you to catch the criminal!"

"Sherlock, you- you-" the army doctor stuttered, his face pale as a sheet.

"The murderer wasn't supposed to have a gun and what with your army experience, you were supposed to be able to fight him off-"

"Don't you blame this on me!" John shouted.

The room fell into dead silence for a moment.

"I wasn't blaming you," Sherlock argued through gritted teeth.

John cast his gaze back up to the white ceiling. "I can't believe you. You almost got me killed. You son of a-"

"But I didn't!" the consulting detective interrupted. "You're still here and you'll be fine."

"No, actually, I won't. Thanks to your bloody stupid plan, my leg could be permanently damaged. I might have a _real_ limp this time!"

Sherlock whirled around on his heel, turning so John wouldn't be able to see the distraught expression on his face.

A nurse cleared her throat from her position in the doorway. "Excuse me, sirs, but you need to quiet down. This _is_ a hospital."

Without another word, Sherlock hurried out of the room. His emotions were a roiling mess. He felt so guilty and ashamed of what he'd done. His plan should have worked, but it didn't. He should have realized that the murderer would have a gun.

The detective jammed the floor down button outside the elevator. The doors didn't open right away, and Sherlock hit the button again and again. As he waited, he could hear Donovan and Anderson coming down the hallway to visit John.

"I can't believe Sherlock. I told everyone he'd do something like this someday." Donovan's voice carried down the corridor.

"Why does Lestrade put up with the arrogant sociopath anyways?" Anderson questioned.

The elevator doors slid open, and Sherlock quickly stepped into the metal box, blocking out his colleague's comments.

Sherlock didn't return to the hospital that day. He spent the rest of the day at the flat, with no one but his violin to keep him company. The detective played for hours and hours on end, attempting to take his mind off of John in the hospital. It worked. For a while. Eventually he resorted to watching the telly. A few crime shows were on, but Sherlock correctly guessed the perpetrator within a minute each time.

The house felt empty without John. Sherlock found himself talking to the skull on his mantel again, just to break the oppressive feeling of silence.

A little after midnight, Sherlock finally gave up on consciously trying to hold back his emotions. The detective headed to the bathroom cupboard and retrieved an unopened bottle of sleeping pills that Mycroft had had prescribed for the younger man a long time ago.

Without bothering to check the dosage, the detective downed four of the pills and then retreated to the couch to sleep.

The next morning, Sherlock was woken by his phone ringing. Groggy, the man fumbled with the cellular device for a moment before setting it to speaker phone.

"Sherlock, what have you been doing? I've been texting you for the past 15 minutes," Lestrade's words crackled over the speaker.

"Sleeping."

"At 9 o'clock? You never sleep till 9 o'clock."

Sherlock glanced sharply at the clock. It was indeed 9am. "Your point?" he replied callously.

"I- oh, nevermind." Lestrade sighed. "Just get down to the hospital. John's being discharged so we're going to get him back to the flat."

"Alright." The consulting detective hung up before the other man could continue. Rubbing his eyes tiredly - apparently four sleeping pills was well over the recommended dose - Sherlock shuffled into his room and donned a set of clean clothes. Within five minutes, he was on his way to the hospital.

With the help of a nurse, John was able to manoeuvre himself into the wheelchair. Now that he was off the morphine, his leg was starting to throb.

"Here's some medication for the pain." As if on cue, the nurse handed the army doctor a bottle of pills. "Instructions are on the back."

"Thank you." John tucked the bottle into a pocket, then wheeled himself out of the room.

Lestrade was there waiting for him. "I called Sherlock," the detective inspector declared. "He's on his way."

At the mention of his flatmate's name, John felt a flash of anger tinged with melancholy. It was Sherlock's fault he was in this position. John couldn't help but wonder if his friendship - his life, even - had ever meant anything to the consulting detective.

"I'm not sure how we'll get you up the stairs and into the flat. We'll have to figure that out." Lestrade pushed the wheelchair into the elevator.

They had just made it down to the lobby when Sherlock strode in through the automatic doors. His hair was a rumpled mess. Lestrade felt slightly concerned. Sherlock did not enjoy sleeping and tried to sleep as little as he could. But it was past 9am and he'd apparently just woken up.

"Lestrade." The consulting detective nodded his head in greeting. "John. Good to see you up and about."

John didn't reply. He wheeled himself away from Lestrade's grip on the back of the chair.

The detective inspector took the hint and stepped back to give the army doctor some space. "We're taking Anderson's van to get to your flat. He's got room in his trunk for a wheelchair."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, please tell me that annoying idiot isn't actually here-"

"He's right behind you," John cut in.

The consulting detective spun around. Anderson was sending him a glare that could have killed.

"Anderson, go away." Sherlock scowled.

"Go away yourself," the forensic scientist snarled back.

"Boys, calm down." Lestrade directed them out the door, John following close behind. "We're not here to bicker."

Anderson's van, an ancient looking station wagon, was parked right next to the doors of the hospital. The scientist yanked open the trunk, and John wheeled his chair next to the vehicle.

Sherlock moved to help the army doctor, but Lestrade was already there. John slung his arm over Lestrade's shoulder and stood up on one leg. Anderson hoisted the wheelchair into the trunk. With no other way to help, Sherlock pulled open the van door as Lestrade and John slowly made their way over.

"Your licence plate is Sylvia?" The consulting detective commented to Anderson.

"It was my mother's," the forensic scientist said quickly - almost too quickly. Everyone stifled a laugh.

When they arrived at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them.

"Oh, John!" she gasped. "Poor John! What happened to you, dear? Are you alright?"

A small smile crept over the army doctor's face. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. I was-" he broke off for a moment. "I was injured on a case. You didn't know?"

"No, not at all. Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock just shrugged in response.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head with a 'tsk'. This was typical of Sherlock. She'd thought that he'd changed when John came to the flat. Apparently not. "Oh, never mind. I'll go up and make us a cup of tea." The landlady hurried up the stairs.

"How are we going to get John up the stairs?" Anderson questioned.

"You and Sherlock will carry the wheelchair up, and then I'll help John." Lestrade aided the army doctor to his feet - or rather, to his one good foot - and Sherlock pulled the wheelchair away.

Anderson sighed. "Why do I always have to work with _him_?" he muttered. He and the consulting detective each picked up one end of the wheelchair and began manoeuvring it up the narrow stairs.

Behind them, Lestrade and John had begun to make their way up the stairs. It was a slow and painful process for the doctor. By the time they made it to the top, John was sweating and biting his lip in pain. Lestrade eased him into the wheelchair.

"I guess I won't be leaving the flat for a while," John panted.

Lestrade chuckled. "I guess not." He pushed the other man's chair into the flat. Anderson and Mrs. Hudson were in the kitchen making tea and scones. Sherlock was walking around and kicking things out of the way to make a path for John's wheelchair. Snatching up the bottle of sleeping pills before anyone could see, the consulting detective strode to the washroom to put the pills in the medicine cabinet. As he stood at the sink, a wave of self-loathing washed over him. The sudden intense feeling was reminiscent of the "attacks" of his youth, but at the same time was completely different. Sherlock leaned over the counter, mumbling his way through the periodic table until the emotion had passed.

"It was an accident," the detective murmured to his reflection. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way." He popped the mirror open and slid the bottle of pills behind some other bottles.

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom once he had regained his composure. Lestrade, Anderson, John, and Mrs. Hudson were sitting around the cleared-off table, chatting merrily. In less than a second, the consulting detective realized that they were happier in his absence. Their body language throughout the past half hour had been obvious. Sherlock silently turned around and headed for his room, alone.

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Thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed or followed or even just read this. :) You're awesome.

As I mentioned earlier, Chapter 3 might be a little late. Or a little early. We'll see.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything really... If I did I would have more money. Also, the quote of my title - "To Err is Human" - I didn't come up with that. Not my quote!

AN: Ack! So sorry it took me so long. :( I've been really busy lately and this chapter has been a killer to write. Finally got it finished though! I won't be able to update frequently for the next several weeks either. Between exams and final projects, I won't have much time for anything. :p sorry!

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**Chapter 3**

At 6:00 the next morning, Sherlock was awake and pulling the bow over the strings of his violin. The music was soft and melodic, and didn't wake up the flat's other occupant. It wasn't until 7:30 that John wheeled himself out of his room.

"I'll have to call and tell the secretary I won't be in for a couple weeks," the doctor stated with a yawn.

Sherlock continued playing and didn't respond.

"Could you make a cup of tea?" John continued. "I can't reach the kettle from here."

The consulting detective ceased playing for no more than ten seconds to put on the kettle. "We're out of milk."

"As if you can expect me to believe you this time."

Not putting down his violin, Sherlock used his knee to open the fridge door. "See?"

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" John questioned with a raised eyebrow. His flatmate shrugged, then set the violin down.

"I'm bored. I'll go get some." The detective yanked his coat off the hook and headed for the door. "Oh, and don't drink the fruit punch. It's actually human blood." The door slammed shut behind him.

A half hour later, John was finally finishing his tea. He'd nearly killed himself trying to get out a cup and then having to reach the kettle. No thanks to Sherlock, who had left before helping him.

Footsteps thumped up the stairs, and Sherlock breezed into the room and discarded his coat on the floor. In his hand was a package of something that was definitely not milk.

"They call this 'Silly Putty', John. It seems to be a chemically advanced child's toy." Sherlock ripped open the cardboard and plastic packaging.

The doctor heaved an exasperated sigh. "What about the milk?"

"What? Oh - milk. Trivial."

"How is milk more trivial than silly putty?" John exclaimed. Sherlock, too absorbed in the silly putty, didn't say anything. John wheeled the chair over to his laptop, and the whole flat fell into a sullen silence.

"I brought you some supper, dears!" Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted up the stairs. Sherlock looked up from his analysis of the silly putty to see his landlady carrying a container of pasta. The smell of alfredo sauce wafted through the flat.

"I'm not hungry," the consulting detective replied.

John glared at him. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It smells delicious." He set his laptop down on the side table.

Sherlock returned to the silly putty, ignoring Mrs. Hudson as she set the past down on the counter.

"How are you holding up, John?"

"Alright. The pain medication works well, so my leg doesn't hurt at all," John responded.

"Oh, that's excellent. Sherlock, dear, could you clear off a spot on the table?" the landlady reached for plates and cutlery.

Without looking up from his silly putty, the detective swept aside some of the clutter.

All through the meal, Mrs. Hudson and John tried to integrate Sherlock into the conversation, but the man barely acknowledged them. He seemed too absorbed with his new toy.

In reality, Sherlock was trying to avoid his guilt. He'd attempted to join the chatting, but every time he looked up and saw John, he remembered that John's injury was his fault.

If it had happened to anyone else - if it was Anderson or the mailman or the man who owned the sandwich shop - Sherlock wouldn't have cared. That was just the way he was. But John was different. John was one of the few people who had ever cared for Sherlock. And the detective was starting to realize that everyone needed people to care, even high-functioning sociopaths.

_There was gunfire and flashes of light everywhere. The screams of the dying rang out in the streets. Bullets glanced off the walls and sent chips of stone flying._

_"Bomb!" someone screamed in the distance and there was an explosion and everything blurred into flashes of black and white and red-_

John awoke with the gasping start of a scream. The sheets were tangled and damp from sweat. The doctor extricated himself from the mess and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a familiar ache in his right leg.

Dammit. Why couldn't the war just leave him alone?

Sherlock's violin was certainly getting it's exercise. As occupied as he was between the silly putty and his instrument, the detective barely said a word over the next three days. John occasionally tried to make conversation, but success was rare. Mrs. Hudson continued to bring meals, but that didn't elicit any sort of response from Sherlock either.

Five days after John had gotten shot, Mrs. Hudson announced a sentence that gave the consulting detective an immediate headache.

"Sherlock, your brother's here!"

The detective swore and threw the violin bow across the room. John caught it out of the air before it could fall to the ground.

"Calm down," the doctor reprimanded. "It's just Mycroft."

Sherlock blew out a frustrated sigh. "It's never _just_ Mycroft! I can't bel-"

"You do know he actually cares for you?"

"No, he doesn't," Sherlock scoffed. He set down the violin. "I'll be back later today."

Mycroft was halfway up the stairs when Sherlock pushed past him. "Retreating already?" the older brother called out dryly. The other didn't respond.

Sherlock took a taxi directly to police HQ. He burst through the doors to Lestrade's office and asked, "Do you have any cases?"

Lestrade heaved a sigh. "No, Sherlock. You know I'd call if we did."

"Not even a robbery?"

"Not our division," the DI replied.

Sherlock threw his hands into the air. "Why are criminals always so incompetent?"

Donovan, standing just outside her superior's office, made eye contact with Lestrade and started to mouth her favourite phrase. _One of these days_...

Lestrade ignored her. "Sherlock, just go home. I'll call you if we have anything."

"Mycroft's at the flat."

"He's your brother!"

Sherlock headed out of the office without bothering to say another word.

Sherlock's next stop was the morgue. He was certain there was some experiment he could come up with, and some corpses to experiment on. The detective strode through the chilly lower levels of the building, but he didn't feel the cold. He'd come down here far too many times to notice.

Molly looked up as he pushed open the doors. "Sh-Sherlock," the mortician stuttered for a moment before regaining her composure. "I didn't expect you to show up here."

"Well, here I am." Sherlock pulled off his scarf and tossed it on the counter. "Any new bodies?"

This type of question didn't faze Molly, not anymore. "Those bodies were real people, you know. So no, none you can use for your experiments."

"Damn."

"How is John doing?"

Midway through reaching for his scarf, Sherlock froze. "He's alright."

"That's good." Molly glanced down at her shoes. "And- and how are you doing?"

"I wasn't the one who got shot," Sherlock replied sharply, trying to act like the mortician hadn't hit the nail on the head, so to speak.

"I know you did something wrong, and you know you did something wrong, but don't beat yourself up about it any more. Everyone makes mistakes," Molly said softly.

"Just not mistakes this big." The words slipped out before the consulting detective could stop them. He spun on his heel and headed for the doors.

"Sherlock-"

"Go back to work, Molly."

The consulting detective wandered around the city for another two hours. Finally he was driven home in a police cruiser after causing a disruption at a library. By this time, it was well past dinner and into the evening. John was sitting in front of the television, watching a game show.

"The answer is an ostrich. _Struthio camelus_," Sherlock commented as he walked into the room.

"I was trying to figure this one out on my own, thank you very much," John exclaimed exasperatedly.

"You're welcome."

The army doctor grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. "Mrs. Hudson brought supper again."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten at all today. You've barely eaten anything for the past week. Sherlock, are you okay?" John questioned.

Sherlock shrugged off the question. "Yes, of course I'm fine. And I have eaten today. Now where's that plant material I was looking at?"

"On the table, where you left it."

The detective sat down in front of his microscope. The silence that had been so prevalent over the past several days returned. Sherlock had always been comfortable with silence, but this quietness felt... off. The detective pushed that thought aside. He had no time for emotional hunches or what people called a 'gut feeling'.

However, John's misery was more than a subtle idea. It was obvious. His mobility restricted, he spent long hours in front of the television. The lack of physical activity was starting to get to him.

John retired earlier than usual that night. Sherlock stayed up for another couple of hours, but when he did decide to get some sleep, he took two more of Mycroft's sleeping pills to ensure dreamlessness that night. That turned out to be a major mistake.

John pulled himself out of another nightmare with a sharp inhale. An expletive slipped out from between clenched teeth.

The man's stomach was roiling uncomfortably. To settle his nerves - and his digestive system - John made a split-second decision to head to the kitchen to get something to eat. An apple, probably. He slid himself over to where his wheelchair sat next to his bed.

However, in the near-pitch-blackness, the doctor's depth perception was greatly lacking. Coupled with the fact that his mattress had shifted from his tossing and turning, this was a recipe for disaster.

Instead of making it all the way off to the seat of the wheelchair, John slammed the side of his leg - his right leg - into the armrest of the chair. The army doctor let out a cry of pain as he fell to the ground and landed almost directly on his injury. Stars danced before his eyes as pain blossomed in his leg. A dark splotch of blood spread across the fabric of his pajamas.

The shout and accompanying 'thud' woke Sherlock from sleep. Groggy from the medication, it took Sherlock a moment to register the pained moans coming from John's room. The detective stumbled out of bed, his vision slightly blurred.

"Get to John. Get to John," he muttered to himself, trying to focus his thoughts. He clumsily grabbed his cellphone off the bedside table, ready to call for an ambulance if necessary.

Sherlock staggered into John's room to find his flatmate curled on the floor in pain. The instant the detective flipped on the light, the stains of blood on the carpet became all too obvious. Sherlock knelt down next to the injured man - all too reminiscent of the night he'd been shot - and dialed for an ambulance.

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Agh I'm sorry that really wasn't all that good and I didn't really proofread and I don't really know anything about sleeping pills but thank you all for reading and reviewing ;). The next chapter will be a while probably. It's probably safe to say that most of you know the horror of end-of-semester crap.


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